Erin lowers herself opposite me, then leans forward,elbows on her knees, gaze gentle but direct, as if tuning in before she plays a note. “I want you to know something.”
My stomach tightens.
She worries the corner of a throw pillow between her fingers, thinking. “Kieran told us what happened,” she says slowly. “He told Liam. He told my mom. And…we’re all ashamed for him.”
I go very still.
“How are you holding up?” she asks.
I don’t have an answer that makes sense. I shrug, and the movement is too small to be useful. Heat pricks behind my eyes anyway, stubborn and humiliating.
Erin reaches to take my hand, squeezing once, steady. “I’ve never seen him this ashamed of himself.”
My breath shudders out. “Good.”
She doesn’t flinch at the sharpness. If anything, her tone softens. “Wren…you are right to shut him out. He’s my brother, and I love him, but—” Her mouth tightens. “Let him sit in it. Let him stew.”
The words land in my bones. Then she adds, quieter, “And for what it’s worth, I don’t think he’s the same boy he was a few weeks ago. I think whatever this is…it’s changed him.” Her gaze holds mine. “That doesn’t make it fair or okay.”
Something twists in my chest, sharp and unwelcome. I don’t want to care if he’s changed. I don’t want it to matter that he might be suffering. He should suffer. He earned it.
But some small, treacherous part of me whispers,what if there’s a way back?
“It doesn’t change what he did,” I say, and I sound more certain than I feel.
Erin nods, squeezing my hand again. “I know.”
My palms are trembling slightly. I stare at them like they belong to someone else. “It’s been…a lot.”
“I know.”
That’s when it hits me. Not the sympathy. The certainty. Someone believing me without needing proof. Without questioning if I’m overreacting. Without suggesting I should forgive and forget.
I don’t look up. “Everyone’s talking. Everyone saw it.”
“Let them. You’ll be fine.” Her tone firms. “That’s what matters.”
I don’t realize I’m crying until a single tear drops onto my wrist.
Erin shifts closer and slides an arm around my shoulders, gentle enough not to overwhelm me, solid enough that I can’t keep myself rigid.
I lean into her and let myself be held.
After a moment, Erin nudges me.
“Now,” she says, brightening the room by sheer force of personality, “tell me everything. Did Larisa enjoy it? Did she scream? Did she threaten to marry Luka?”
Despite everything, a pained laugh breaks out of me. “She…levitated for two hours.”
Erin dissolves into laughter. “That sounds about right.”
“And Luka is a flirt if there ever was one,” I add.
“Oh, he’s always that way. He thinks it increases audience engagement.”
“It does.”
“Of course it does. Men are disasters.”
